Revenant
by I'm Nova
Summary: For the minibang. It was supposed to be in collaboration with the lovely destielixer and hence better, but she was too busy (real life gets in the way), so this is what you get. Sorry for any flaw. Sherlock strolls in NSY... Romance discussed but not between the characters listed
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine, as usual._

_A.N. I mention Sir Henry Merrivale, creation of Carter Dickson – alias of John Dickson Carr – in here. Not only because of his competence (Gideon Fell or Bencolin would have worked as well). One of Merrivale's many nicknames (H.M. and Old Man among others) was, according to the Plague Court Murders, Mycroft. Not that H.M. liked it at all, and I think Mycroft would strongly object to the comparison too, but I couldn't help myself. _

Revenant

Sergeant Sally Donovan was not a woman who regretted many things. After all, remorse alone didn't accomplish anything. If you could put to right what you messed up, you better do that instead, and quickly. If you couldn't...As long as you didn't repeat the same mistake (but she knew better than be so stupid) the best thing was to go on with your life and don't ruin it dwelling on what was in the past.

Today though, pouring for the nth time over the documents of the Adair case, she felt decidedly incline to wallow in regret instead. It was all useless anyway. A locked room murder. They had on their hands a proper locked room murder straight out of Carter Dickson. How were they supposed to solve that? What did the press (because of course that had made all the titles, secrecy of the investigation be damned) expect them to do? Find a self-teleporting murderer? She would like nothing better, but there were no clues after all. Anderson (poor, so very under-appreciated Mark) and his squad had combed through the room and come out empty-handed.

Which was exactly why Sally was so dejected today. Even Carter Dickson didn't expect the police to solve impossible murders, that's why that oddball Merrivale was around. But they had no Merrivale, and no...no one anymore able to solve this. She maintained that Lestrade had called the Freak too often. To keep him entertained and off drugs, she suspected, but they were the police; they shouldn't take on bloody charity cases! It was in the one-in-a-million chance something like this happened that a consultant (even an unbearable one) was seriously needed.

And it was her fault he wasn't around to spout that it was obviously the sister, because the dust had been disturbed...or something equally as insensate when you first heard it. She had never wanted that, really. She wouldn't wish that on anyone. She _had_ felt a cruel glee at being finally proved right and seeing him in disgrace though. Only she wasn't right. She'd been duped (like everyone else, but that didn't make it sting any less). No, not like everyone else, but John didn't count. He wouldn't believe it even if the Freak _had_ really indulged in serial killing like she had always expected he would – come on, he was rapturous over those. Anyhow, subsequent investigations had – recently – proved beyond any doubt _Moriarty was real_, as the odd graffiti appearing here and there said from the start. Way to go, Sally. Used by a criminal mastermind to get rid of the one person as freakishly brilliant (she was right; John too) you had on your side, and now with another impossible killer on your hands.

A sudden scream made her look up in alarm. She didn't, though. No screaming, no running, no nothing, and she was pretty proud of that. Because there was a ghost inside New Scotland Yard, and it wasn't even Halloween. A long legged, curly haired ghost who walked in as if he owned the place. As usual. There were a few differences...well, that was to be expected. No coat, for one (she didn't know why that surprised her). And he was even more gaunt that he'd been before. Sally was just grateful he wasn't spookier, you know, with his brain leaking out from the fractured skull or something of the sort. She'd surely lose her lunch over such a scene. Probably too vain to go around like that, even as an apparition. She couldn't drag her eyes away from him. He was coming forward, towards her, like Banquo's bloody spectre (not that she'd planned his death, but still guilt lay heavily on her), and nobody would stop him. Of course nobody would. Everyone was doing his or her best to stay out of that thing's way, and she couldn't blame them.

The timing was off, though. It didn't surprise her that the Freak would haunt Scotland Yard. Either to take some form of revenge – though she desperately hoped this wasn't the case – or to assert his superiority as usual, pointing out just how inadequate they were, or maybe simply because afterlife bore him. Having Sherlock's ghost messing up their cold cases' files should have been an acquired habit by now. Instead nothing, until now – three whole years after the...event.

Sherlock had started talking by now (so he could), his words rumbling out the way she remembered. No sepulchral effects added. "I shouldn't even be here," he said. Everyone in the room would whole-heartedly agree with him on this, but nobody breathed a word. "But you can't be expected to solve this on your own, can you? It was right before your eyes the whole time, and you didn't realize. Adapted the facts to your theory as usual – and I can't really understand why, since your so called theory didn't even leave you with a scapegoat at hand this time. It left you with an impossibility, in fact."

It was then that Sally found enlightenment. She resolutely ignored the jab – she had a lot of practice on doing exactly that – and latched on whatever was significant. The Adair case! The Freak was back from his grave to solve the Adair case. She should have known. How many times had he reproached Lestrade for calling him about 'simple' crimes? How many times had he refused to leave the flat over something he deemed beneath himself? Never understanding Lestrade had his consultant's frail sanity at heart when he asked his presence for something they could have – should have – solved themselves. Even if they hadn't closed every case they had in the past three years (God knows they didn't), his ghost had slept soundly. Or played the violin on a fluffy white cloud. Or done whatever. They faced a locked room now. That had to be at least a nine on the Freak's scale, right? And his ghost was here, because nothing trivial like simply being dead would stop Sherlock Holmes from meddling with it. It was a wonder he hadn't turned up at the crime scene. Did ghosts get some sort of transmission delay?

She was so entranced by the apparition that she didn't notice Lestrade coming out of his office until he casually swept the Adair files out of her hands.

"Sherlock," the DI said, "it's fine if you want to discuss the Adair case – or any other case, really – but come with me, will you? We've been doing our best, and nobody here needs your insults. See? I've got the documents".

His voice was perfectly steady, and Sally's admiration for him skyrocketed. He'd pretty much just baited a...ghost? Zombie? The Freak looked awfully solid to her, to be honest. Anyway, Lestrade had lured a preternatural creature into a tight, closed space, and Sally really really hoped her superior had a plan beyond sitting with him and listening to his deductions. Or knowledge on dealing with this, improbable as it was. She seriously doubted this was covered in the refresher course Lestrade had been to last month; especially because he came back, well...particularly refreshed. If the DI's ideas of how to treat your undead (walking dead? What?) consultant were based – like hers – on TV shows (Supernatural anyone?) she could only hope the screenwriters had done a bloody well accurate job researching. She was going to personally sue them if things went sour. Of course assuming she'd survive that.

Sherlock had followed Lestrade to his room. Of course he had. Crime scene photos and other investigation files were for him essentially what a baby goat was for a tiger. Or blood in the water for a shark. The perfect enticement. Which should have said things about the Freak. The things she used to say aloud. The consultant passed by her desk – not a glance spared to her. Sally decided she'd be daring. Couldn't stay in Lestrade's team if she was a coward, could she now? Especially after he handled the whole thing so nonchalantly. So she let a finger of hers brush against the dead man's hand. She was curious if he really was as solid as he looked. What she found out startled a gasp out of her. Not that it deserved more than an eye-roll from the bloody Freak before he shut the door behind him, the DI already back inside his office.

"He's alive!" she announced loudly. "The bloody bastard – he's got body heat. He has to be alive!"

"But he was dead, wasn't he? How the fuck did he manage to fake falling to his death? In front of a doctor – ok, scratch that, John wouldn't out him – though someone has to nominate Watson for the Best Supporting Actor Oscar," a colleague ranted.

"Maybe he was dead? All the time? Like – you know – a vampire? That'd make things easy," another one offered.

"And that's what you get for being young, impressionable and living near Highgate cemetery in the 1970s. No Violet, he isn't. But he sure as hell will have to explain a lot of things beyond who and how killed the victim this time. At least I hope so," Sally bit back. She really, really hoped.

_P.S. In the 1970s, a vampire was allegedly sighted in Highgate cemetery in London. Two men, Sean Manchester and David Farrant, tried to exorcise him and managed to get quite a bit of publicity with their rivalry. It's an highly amusing tale. _


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: nothing mine. Probably ballistics impossibilities, but I'm no expert and I'm trying to translate Conan Doyle's ideas. Oh, and a meta-joke (I think it can be called that) I hope won't offend anyone. _

"At least you don't look at me like I'm out of a nightmare," Sherlock remarked.

"Because I knew you survived, so I didn't need to worry about revenants," Lestrade countered, settling behind his desk.

"Ugh...too much information Lestrade!" The detective grimaces.

"What?" Lestrade blinked. Because really, what had he said?

"It wasn't Molly, because if she cracked under the pressure and confessed Mycroft would have warned me. So Mycroft himself told you I was alive, and he wouldn't unless he deemed you family, and since I'm quite sure you're not some long lost relative of ours you've become his...significant other. As I said, Lestrade. Too. Much. Information," Sherlock fired off.

The DI blushed a brilliant red. Dammit, he'd forgotten. Mycroft was like his brother, but he kept his knowledge hidden for future blackmail purposes, so he wasn't used anymore to having his life's very private details exposed. Thank God they were in his office!

The best defense was to attack – Sherlock proved that everyday – so Lestrade refused to justify himself or indeed discuss the thing in any way. Instead, he redirected the conversation.

"I thought you had to keep a low profile, Sherlock. What has gotten into you? A locked room is so juicy you simply can't resist it?" the DI asked with a smirk.

The sleuth was grim when he replied, "The culprit is part of Jim's web. He's the most prominent member still free, in fact."

"Oh. So you would be involved anyway. I guess it makes sense."

"And really, your team's performance has worsened over the years. Did you all become blind? The room was far from locked," Sherlock reprimanded, ending with a sigh.

"Now Sherlock, the room was locked with a deadbolt from the inside," Lestrade objected, opening the files to confirm it with the crime scene photos.

"But the definition of a locked room murder implies a dead body in a room without any openings, as if in a box. Here, Lestrade!" the detective pointed out the room's window, left slightly ajar, on the very same photo.

"Ballistics said it was used a gun, and there is no way a gun could make that shot. Not if bullets haven't been trained to turn a corner or the shooter wasn't hovering in midair, in which case I think we'd have witnesses. There's no place inside a gun's firing range to shoot from so that the bullet would go through the window, not even for a crackshot." The inspector wanted nothing more than a solution, but he needed an unassailable explanation.

"It wasn't a gun. It was a rifle. Sebastian Moran, sniper, had a specially commissioned weapon built so that the striations left on the bullets match those of a gun. It's widely known inside Moriarty's web," Sherlock revealed.

"Why in hell would he do that?" Lestrade wondered aloud. He knew sharpshooters loved their

weapons, but this looked nonsensical.

"_Jim_'s gift." Sherlock spit the name like a curse. "Knowing him,_ this _is why he did it. In case I didn't play into his hands – if I let you _die_ – he knew I could restore my reputation. The police, the media...everyone could run all the checks they could imagine on me, and my deductive powers would be proved true. Jim had already planned another round. The fake locked room would have been amusing. Having infiltrated his organization, and hence knowing the answer already, it is unspeakably boring instead. Obviously."

Of course Jim had a plan B for the situation at Bart's. Just in case he had misjudged where Sherlock's pressure points lay, in case the detective really was a psychopath as Donovan repeated. Or a plan C, considering how things panned out. He shouldn't have worried. He found Sherlock's weakness the way a shark smelt blood: unerringly and by instinct. Luckily Jim forgot Molly – lots of people did (Sherlock too, sometimes). Otherwise, he'd be well and truly resting under that ugly black stone. Mycroft's taste was abominable...and his brother couldn't even say in his defense that he'd done it to save money. Greek marble. Of course, the whole point of the stone was to keep up the necessary appearances, and it would reflect badly on Mycroft if he settled for anything less. How did his brother not gag on the sheer duplicity of his workplace?

While Sherlock's thoughts took this rather singular and slightly morbid turn, Lestrade allowed himself a moment to consider the chance that Moriarty's plan needed to come to fruition. It made him vaguely sick, not because he'd be dead in that prospect, but because it'd be such a waste of this young man's true potential if Sherlock had agreed to their deaths (to _John_'s death) in order to keep his duel with Moriarty going. Speaking of John...

"Boring? Is that why you didn't bring John around this time? Even if it is for you, I'd imagine he'd like to see the end of this case – I'm surprised he trusts you alone, really. And I somehow doubt you will just give me the name and sit out of this anyway, so it's doubly odd that he's not shadowing you. So? How comes, Sherlock?" the detective inspector inquired.

"As you said, Lestrade, I have to keep a low profile. That means not contacting people from my... past life, so to speak. The ones apprised of my continued existence are Molly Hooper, Mycroft, you, and now your subordinates currently on the clock, whose collaboration I need – distasteful as that is – to ensure Sebastian Moran and his underlings will not pose a danger against anyone anymore. I don't see why you would assume John knew about my survival, much less about my taking this case. Unless it is because of your ingrained habit of making baseless assumptions," Sherlock replied, cold as ice and almost spiteful.

The crueller he gets, the most defensive he's feeling. The DI learned that long ago. So he wasn't offended. Well, he wouldn't have been if he wasn't busy gaping. And gaping. And gaping some more. Then he finally managed to growl, "Wait a moment here. When Mycroft told me about you I kept my mouth shut, even when I really didn't want to, but well, safety first. But are you seriously telling me you let Donovan know you're alive before John? You let _Anderson_ know first, 'cause there's no way she's not texting him right now?", glaring all the while.

So Sherlock's mind worked in ways no one else seemed to get (but his brother...partially), but honestly. What. Was. That. Boy. Thinking? If he was thinking at all. Lestrade would have understood, maybe even praised, not telling Mrs. Hudson just yet, because revealing such a news to the poor lady required tact if they wanted her not to have a heart attack, and tact had never been Sherlock's strong suit. But the inspector would have bet an year's worth of his salary on the consultant detective beelining from the airport to his blogger, like a needle back in a magnet's range. If Lestrade had ever met a couple (maybe not like that, not that it mattered) codependent, it was Sherlock-and-John after all.

Not in the psychiatric sense, mind you. John might be a saint (his niece showed him the tag, after explaining to him what fanfiction are and why someone would lose time writing their fantasies about more-or-less famous people's sex life – mostly), but he's not a pushover. Hell, he's the only one who can keep Sherlock in some sort of line. In the _etymological_ sense. They are dependent on each other. Considering the other options (he's met pre-John Sherlock), if this offered them even a shred of balance, Lestrade was sure everyone who met them – barring Moriarty – wouldn't dare to wish them apart. God knows when alone they were both messed up (not that Greg felt much better than them) but together...together they were a bloody force of nature. Which begged the question –_ again_ – of _why_ would Sherlock stay away from one John Watson, MD an attosecond more than absolutely necessary. (Attosecond is the shortest time measurable; it's weird what stuck in your brain after an evening with _Beyond Tomorrow._)

Sherlock openly grimaced at the mention of Anderson, but he was silent for awhile, trying to decide how to word his answer so that Lestrade would stop prying. In the end, he settled for, "I did. I'm aware this is not the best possible option, not what I'd wish, but I have my reasons for that, Lestrade." It didn't work.

"Let's hear them, Sherlock. I'd like to help if I can. And I bloody hope they're very sound reasons, because if they aren't, I swear I'm texting John right now. Telling him to come around because a friend of mine in the Lost Property Office had something of his brought in and he gave it to me since he knows going by Baker Street is painful for him," Greg flat-out ordered.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: nothing mine, of course. You know, I know...do I really need to repeat?_

Lestrade wouldn't. Sherlock wanted to believe the inspector wouldn't dare to out his survival to John without permission. His, Mycroft's...preferably both. He wasn't about to call the bluff, though. If Greg followed through with his threat it would mean nothing short of disaster. He considered lying for a second before rejecting the idea. Lestrade wouldn't mock him. The DI didn't share his subordinates' view of Sherlock – the Freak without a heart or a soul – nor Mycroft's assessment of feelings as weakness (before at least...but his attitude hadn't become colder, so he presumably still didn't). Hence Greg had no reason to snarl at what he had to say.

"I don't know how to,"The sleuth admitted.

"You looked pretty confident a few seconds ago," Greg objected. Because really, the details could vary infinitely, but in the end all Sherlock had to do was to show himself, prove he wasn't a ghost nor a delusion, and then it was out of his hands. The ball was in John's court.

"Obviously," Sherlock agreed. "They hated me anyway." He needed their collaboration; affection, loyalty, even simple respect had always been out of the picture. Why should he feel any compunction over having deceived them? Only Lestrade had been different. Telling him could have been a sort of a trial run, and Mycroft had ruined it by informing him.

"So _that _is what you're worried about," the DI remarked, eyes brightening with sudden understanding. Sometimes he could be really slow. But John hating Sherlock seemed so...unnatural. Annoyed? Sure, all the time. But seriously hating...no, just no.

"I'm not worried," the detective protested, bristling. And he wasn't. Bloody terrified would have been more correct. "But I've been running mental simulations of our reunion, and according to the data I have, John is going to be angry."

"Angry?" Lestrade snorted. "Try livid, Sherlock." He had been, when Mycroft offered him the revelation, in order to ease his guilt and reassure him that no, Mycroft wasn't unhealthily repressing his grief. That the Holmes brothers thought it was ok to manipulate everything and everyone to their purposes was nothing short of outrageous, and he said as much. Loudly. Then he'd been calmly informed about exactly what these purposes were. That had shut him up instantly.

Sherlock paled a little (a feat in itself), but agreed. "I know. I know there's an high probability that John will want to stop associating with me altogether. That he will hate me for the deception I've carried on." His mouth contorted around the words, as if it pained him physically to voice them. "But I'm sure there must exist a way to engineer the event so that John will find acceptable to restore our friendship. I just haven't found it yet," he added eagerly.

The DI sighed heavily. What was the problem with Holmeses and tricking? Couldn't they trust people to willingly do what they hoped for? Even only once? _Of course not, Greg. Don't be daft, _he told himself. For all their arrogance, both brilliant idiots didn't give themselves credit enough to imagine someone might actively want them around. Even when there was abundant evidence of the fact. (They were, however, uncannily good at recognizing hints of sexual interest. Especially ones you yourself weren't aware of sending.)

As both John's friend and Sherlock's surrogate father figure/hopefully soon-to-be brother-in-law (Gosh, he needed a shrink) it was his duty to set the young man straight, wasn't it?

"Look, Sherlock. Have you considered being honest? Straightforward?" he asked. If the consultant detective hadn't fled yet after stating his conviction, he was open to suggestions.

"Do you take me for a complete imbecile, Lestrade? Of course I have. It won't be enough to placate John," Sherlock snarled.

"If you want him to not be angry at all with you, not even for a second, the only viable option I see is lobotomizing John in advance, and I honestly hope you don't find this a good plan," the inspector replied.

"If I wanted someone brainless around I'd text Anderson," the sleuth spat out. "And just because you can't see a way to prevent John's ire..."

"It doesn't mean such a way doesn't exist," the DI concluded for him. "But the point here, Sherlock, is that you can't see either. And I honestly think that he'll eventually forgive you, no matter how angry John might be the moment you reveal that bloody stunt was faked."

Sherlock's whole demeanour brightened at the reassurance. "Are you positive?" he queried. Needing John as he did – a realization he had to come to terms with over his absence – the prospect that his friend (maybe more, if Sherlock ever got his way) might easily hate him had been haunting. Eventually being forgiven wasn't optimal, but it was better than his fears.

"I am," Lestrade vouched. "On some conditions."

"Which?"

"That you're completely honest. After lies of such massive proportions, if he catches you trying to deceive him again John might snap. I might too, on that subject. And no, it doesn't mean that you just have to be careful not to let yourself be discovered. I'm serious here, Sherlock. No more tricks."

Sherlock nodded jerkily.

The inspector just hoped he took this to heart. Otherwise thing would go spectacularly bad, and really, not John neither Sherlock (no matter how crazy he could be) deserved that.

"Second, you stop dilly-dallying about...oh, five minute ago. It's bad enough that you came here first. The longer you stretch your I'm-back-but-not-coming-home time, the more grievous an offence you're committing. Go home, Sherlock. Cowardice doesn't suit you at all."

Sherlock literally scrambled out of the room without another word.

Someone yelled, "Hey wait!" after him, but it was an useless endeavour. As everyone should have known.

Lestrade couldn't help but wonder if Mycroft hadn't updated his little brother about John's change of address, unlikely as it was. If the elder Holmes had...It was significant that Sherlock, who corrected people's error out of sheer compulsion, had not protested his slip of tongue when he'd implicitly called John – wherever he may be – the detective's home. Wasn't it?

He wished Sherlock hadn't obeyed him quite so promptly (and really, that sentence used to be an oxymoron). In his haste to drum into the detective's head the need to get to John...yesterday, he hadn't reassured him as much as he would have liked to, or as much as the sleuth seemed to require.

Yes, John would be angry. Yes, nothing short of lobotomy or administering of drugs in a permanent fashion would stop him from feeling the rage at having been so spectacularly deceived. But John – like Greg before him, and probably much more – would have been elated, too. Everything would inevitably be washed away by the high tide of _thank God. Thank God, thank God, thank God. It wasn't my fault – well, no one's fault but Moriarty's. And a tiny bit the Holmes pair's fault for playing the game. But the spider couldn't be allowed to go on, and Sherlock's fine, so thank. God. I'm going to church this Sunday. Have to say thanks properly. _Probably sooner later than later.

There was no way John could really bring himself to hate Sherlock for what he did. It would have been like that old, old joke of the man cutting his own cock to take revenge against his wife. The doctor needed his friend (whether or not in a couple-y capacity didn't really matter, though Greg had his suspicions). Refusing to forgive Sherlock – refusing to have any kind of contact with him because of his choice – would have hurt John just as much as the detective. The doctor might be many things, but he wasn't a masochist.

Oh well. Sherlock might not have been adequately heartened to face his reunion without too much anxiety, but perhaps it wasn't too bad. The git (self-sacrificing, but still definitely a git) deserved it. If it made him more cautious when approaching John it might even be an helpful feeling. God knows that Sherlock had an history of opening his mouth only to promptly and vehemently insert his own foot there. If the sleuth's angst kept him from saying something completely insensitive that would make John be hard-pressed not to murder him, it was surely good.

Maybe he would wait a bit before closing the Adair case. Yeah, he knew how. He even knew who. He could search for Moran and bring him in. But as he said, Sherlock would want to be involved anyway. Stalling just a little, so that the detective had a case to offer his friend, wasn't an entirely bad idea. John wouldn't pass up chasing armed criminals again. And Greg absolutely hadn't caught the manipulating/plotting bug from Mycroft. Had he?


End file.
